In caverns known but to the tides,
the blind fish turn their silvered side;
beneath a phosphorescent moon,
they dance the ageless murmured tune
of sea and earth and hidden places.
A song, in turn, each drop that traces
its path along the dew-wet blade
of lawn takes up, lets rise and fade,
and, whispered by the rains of night,
the melody lifts into flight,
as wind gives music subtle wings,
to fill the dark between all things.
Stephen Brooke ©2003
Yet another old poem. Unlike many of them, I remember exactly when and where this one was born -- I was sitting in the campground at the Will McLean Festival near Dade City FL in March of '03.
Speaking of festivals, it is almost certain I won't make it to the Florida Folk Festival this year (again). No rest stops till I reach the end of this road.